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Post-Post-Modern Poetry

Post-post-modern poetry is about making observations
That aren't interrelated and pretending that they
Have some emotional significance or
Are ironic (or not—irony is slowly falling out of fashion) .
We strip our verses of the ornate,
Of the indulgence, the pretension,
The figurative language,
Reading a string of thoughts as they appear to us
In that given moment,
A moment which is taken from us
As we receive it.
Grandma eats chocolate and sews my mother a doll
That my sister will play with.
My dog is fourteen years old—
I guess he'll die soon.
My dad works at Big Lots.
He loves his job, but my mom says he works too much.
I was going to take another semester of community college,
But my financial aid didn't clear because I've had my
Associate's degree for a year or so now—
I just want to learn, you know?
I don't want to do anything with my life,
Except maybe eat a little, sleep a little,
Play video games and watch movies,
Read a book every week or so,
Listen to as much music as Spotify will let me—
Hey it curbs the urge for me to pirate
The sounds I'd like to hear,
Even if I can't plug them into my car stereo.
I mean, I want to have sex too, of course,
And there's a lot of pretty girls,
And I'm really confident,
But I'm also nervous,
And small talk is pretty boring.
Did Yeats talk like this?
Would Shakespeare understand the poems we write today,
Or would he be like the kids in my high school English Lit classes—
The ones I took for fun, not the AP ones?
I mean, I doubt he'd call himself a "cholo"—
Whatever that is—
Or reference the Latin Kings, but I'm sure he'd have some difficulty
Comprehending the language.
A bad tomato is a bad tomato.
You can no longer eat it.
That sucks.
I just don't know about this.
Do you know about this?
I know a lot about a lot of things,
But that doesn't mean I know anything.
This sounds like something I could write
When I was twelve.
Will it get me published?
Will it get me a job?
Will it get me money,
So I can eat food with feeling guilty
About using my debit card as a credit?
I don't feel guilty,
But I'm feeling as blue as agave,
Which isn't very blue now,
Is it?
And I just don't know what I'm saying,
But help, by the Gods, pumpernickel orange rinds
Crumple on the sagging polyphone around your dog's neck
And the cats are cradling violins in their violet yaps,
Mellowing the evening sky,
And trimming the headlines
That we never heard on the evening news.
I just don't understand.
I just don't.
Do you?

poem by Tim Stensloff
Added by Poetry Lover
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